


can't keep my hands off you or my pants on

by moogle62



Series: eyes are wide like cherry pie [2]
Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 2008 Campaign Era (Crooked Media RPF), Bathroom Sex, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 01:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14966498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Tommy is going to - god, she’s going to do something stupid if this keeps going. She’s going to kiss Jon on the bus, push her against the window and kiss her until her chest stops hurting, until Jon is gasping and squirming and saying,please, Tommy, saying,more.





	can't keep my hands off you or my pants on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winterfold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/gifts).



> this is a very short fic that took me a not very short time to write. a hundred million thanks to everyone who yelled at me to keep going, including and especially winterfold and the ever-glorious laliandra.
> 
> this is set somewhere in the same universe as [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661833) but you definitely don't need to have read that one first. despite the lana del rey title, everyone does, in fact, keep their pants on.
> 
> obviously this is ten thousand percent fictional, keep it secret, keep it safe, yadda yadda yadda.

They’ve been on the bus for a couple hours and Tommy is starting to feel it. She’s usually okay with travel but she thinks Jon’s having a rough go of it today, can feel the tension coming off her in waves. Jon’s gone a few trips without getting travel sick, but she’s silent now, looking out the window like maybe Tommy won’t notice something’s up.

The worst thing is, that’s not all Tommy’s thinking about. It’s been four days since they - since - since whatever they last did whatever this is, Jon squirming into Tommy’s bed, Tommy’s hand in Jon’s practical underwear, Jon’s breath coming hot on Tommy’s neck - and Tommy can’t _stop_ thinking about it, whatever she’s supposed to be doing. She’s been in meetings with the candidate when she’s started thinking about the way Jon clutched at her shoulder when she came. She’s, god, been on the phone with the press. She’s been in situations more professionally serious than this when she’s been distracted by thoughts of Jon Favreau shivering with pleasure in her bed, but right now -- when Jon is distracted and trying fruitlessly to hide it - it feels shittier to get distracted by the way Jon’s thigh is inches from her own.

Tommy shifts in her seat, tries to refocus. “You okay?” she asks, quietly. Jon doesn’t like being the centre of attention if she’s not prepared for it. It’s been months and Tommy still hasn’t seen her tell anyone else if she’s feeling bad; she’s only just started to admit it to Tommy, quietly, and even then it’s fucking rare.

“Yeah,” Jon says, making a face. Her nose wrinkles in a way that should, objectively, be unattractive. “You know. I think I just need some air.”

“I think we’re pulling over soon.” Tommy’s pretty sure; they passed a sign a few miles back and it’s been enough time that a lot of people are starting to get restless, not just Jon. Not just Tommy, squeezing her thighs together and feeling like a pervert when Jon sighs and her shirt pulls over her tits. “You can - walk some.”

The bus is turning off the freeway even as she speaks, but Tommy isn’t really paying attention. The sunlight behind Jon is unfair, falling over her like she’s born for it. 

“What?” Jon says, half smiling. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Eyelash,” Tommy lies, and Jon brushes at her own cheek. “Yeah, you got it.”

None of them are getting enough sleep. Tommy knows Jon isn’t, because she’s usually awake when Jon drifts off, the pair of them sharing a room to save on the budget, and they both startle awake at Jon’s godawful alarm. They don’t have time to be fucking around the way they’ve started, but they are.

Tommy tries so hard to keep her face neutral, keep what she’s thinking out of her expression. It’s good practice, she figures, for worse days, for the press. However hard she tries, she needs to get better: it never works on Jon.

Jon’s voice sinks even lower, quieter, catching a little. “The other night was, uh,” she says, and she’s smiling again, that fucking shy smile, biting her bottom lip like she’s got no idea how good she looks, “uh - I liked it.”

Tommy gets a rush of heat, just at that. She wishes she could shift again, curl up on her seat, anything, just to ease the ache building in her cunt. 

“I liked it too,” she says, and _surely_ it must be obvious how much of an understatement that is, how Jon has worked her way into her head with her big laugh and her big heart and her long, long legs, but Jon just keeps smiling, soft and pleased.

Jon moves her hand, just slightly. Their little fingers brush. 

Tommy is going to - god, she’s going to do something stupid if this keeps going. She’s going to kiss Jon on the bus, push her against the window and kiss her until her chest stops hurting, until Jon is gasping and squirming and saying, _please, Tommy_ , saying, _more_.

“Tommy?” Jon says, still so quiet, and Tommy looks up. She knows she’s flushed, can feel the heat spreading all the way down into her t-shirt. “I keep thinking about it.”

Jesus. “Yeah?” 

Jon stretches a little - the bus is pulling into the rest stop lot now, people around them making noises like they’re ready to stand up, get up, walk past them - and her thigh presses against Tommy’s, just hard enough to be intentional.

“I’m thinking about it now,” Jon whispers. She’s flushed too, red across her gorgeous cheekbones like she’s said something gutter-mouthed and not this, a sotto-voice admission, holding Tommy’s gaze. The bus comes to a stop. “I - I want -”

Someone claps Tommy’s shoulder and she jumps a mile. Jon, carefully, eases away. 

“Coming, Tommy?” Alyssa says, cheerful. “Coffee?”

“I - I’m gonna walk with Jon, I think,” Tommy says, heart pounding in her chest. “We’ve got some stuff to go over, you know, for the -”

Alyssa’s already moving off; their rest stops aren’t long. “Let me know if you want me to grab you something!” she calls, over her shoulder down the aisle, and Tommy says, “Sure!” and Jon, so gently, presses their legs back together.

“You want?” Tommy asks, and it feels like a shout, like she’s yelling in a church, and Jon says, hesitant and determined, “I - I want you. Now.”

Tommy goes so hot so fast she feels a bit light-headed. God knows how red her face is. “I thought you were feeling sick,” she says, stupidly, before her brain can catch up with her mouth.

Jon’s face falls. She’s looking away, gathering her stuff up. “No,” she says, and then: “Sorry.” She’s so quick to apologise, Jesus. “You’re probably right -- we probably shouldn’t -”

“No, god, we should,” Tommy says, so fast. “I didn’t mean -- fuck, Jon, we really should. I want --” She’s already thinking about time - how long it’ll take for them to find somewhere, how long they’ll need, how long to clean up and get back - but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t feel sensible, right now. Next to her, Jon is biting her lip again, pink and pleased. “Come with me?”

Inside is busy, loud, people everywhere and the smell of coffee pervasive. Jon isn’t quite holding Tommy’s hand but she isn’t quite not, either. They walk side by side, so close that their hands brush. Tommy feels like she has a beacon flashing over her head, a siren. Something has to be obvious about this. The world should be able to look at her and know she’s thinking about fucking Jon Favreau, that’s she’s wet in her underwear because Jon said I want you.

There’s a single stall bathroom, and they’re barely inside it, the motion sensor light still flickering, when Jon kisses her.

Tommy lets out this _mmph_ of surprise, back fetching up against the locked door, and recovers fast, pulling Jon in. God, _god_ , this is good, this is -- it feels like falling, finally kissing Jon. It feels like noticing her lungs have been screaming and now she can finally breathe.

“We don’t have much time,” Tommy pants, and Jon groans quietly, hips hitching forwards. “Let me - let me -- here --” and Jon makes a noise of agreement, and Tommy flips them. Jon’s chest is rising and falling fast, tits heaving under her button-down, and Tommy undoes the top button, the second, and gets her mouth there on Jon’s tan skin, the slight swell of her breasts. 

“ _Tommy_.” Jon is clutching at her, holding her close. “Tommy, _please_.”

The other times haven’t been like this. The other times have been calmer, both of them running on empty, finding their way with each other. Tommy doesn’t feel like she’s finding her way now: she feels like she’s burning it down.

“We’ve gotta be quick,” she says, mouthing at Jon’s long neck. “We’ve gotta--” and she cups Jon through her jeans, presses up with her fingers, feels Jon warm even through the denim. Jon rocks down onto her hand at once, helpless. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she’s whispering, head tipped back against the door, “Tommy, yeah, come on.”

Tommy undoes Jon’s jeans and jams her hand in, clumsy, no finesse. She doesn’t push them down -- _no time_ , she’s thinking, _no time_ \-- just gets her hand down under Jon’s underwear until she’s touching skin, until Jon’s damp curls are tickling her palm, until she can rub at Jon’s clit. Jon’s hips buck, hard.

“Fuck,” Jon chokes, biting her lip. “Fuck, yes, can you -- again--”

Tommy can again, and she does. Jon’s so wet for her, wet enough that, with the unfamiliar angle and Tommy’s relative inexperience, her fingers keep slipping out of rhythm, off Jon’s clit. Jon whimpers, and Tommy kisses her neck again. “Sorry,” she says, against Jon’s warm skin, meaning it; she’ll give Jon anything she wants, anything. A fuck in a bathroom; a line for a speech; a shoulder to cry on on bad days and harder nights. Jon is clutching her like she feels just the same, probably wrinkling Tommy’s shirt to hell, and all Tommy wants is for her to grip harder.

“Oh, oh--” Jon is panting, these breathy little noises that are driving Tommy insane, “ _oh_ , Tommy, gonna -- gonna --” and Tommy barely has time to nod her encouragement before Jon is coming, pushing down hard on Tommy’s fingers, all but riding her hand. Her whole face scrunches up when she comes, eyes closing, lips pressed tight together, and objectively it should probably be unattractive but, god, it’s the hottest thing Tommy’s ever seen. 

Tommy is throbbing between her legs, aching for it. Jon is so fucking beautiful like this, flushed and disheveled, closing her thighs on Tommy’s hand to keep her from moving. Tommy flexes her fingers, tentatively, and Jon sucks in a tight, shocked breath, and Tommy can feel Jon clenching down again, spasming around her fingers.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Holy -- Jon, did you just--” and Jon nods, chest heaving, and hauls Tommy in by her collar, kissing her and kissing her like she’s trying to crawl inside Tommy’s body for more.

Tommy is so turned on that it almost hurts to brush against her jeans but she can’t move away, can’t break this kiss. She’s going to give Jon what she wants first, and if that means she dies from some kind of vaginal blue balls, well, so be it.

She can’t help a whimper, though, when Jon bends her knee, presses up between Tommy’s legs. She feels hot all over, prickling under her skin with it, can feel the sweat gathering down her back. “Jon,” she manages, when Jon shifts against her again, “fuck, fuck, _please_ \--” and Jon groans, almost too loud, and fumbles between them to get Tommy’s button fly undone.

It’s all Tommy can do to keep her footing, keep her legs braced as Jon gets her hand down Tommy’s panties and rubs, blunt, at Tommy’s clit. Tommy has to duck her head, press her mouth against Jon’s neck to keep from making too much noise, holding onto Jon with everything she’s got.

“Tom,” Jon says, low, and keeps saying it. Her fingers keep slipping away from where Tommy needs them most but it almost doesn’t matter, is almost good enough just like this, the pressure of Jon’s leg between her thighs and Jon’s fingers insistent and wanting against her. She’s gonna -- 

“Jon,” she begs, clutching at Jon’s side, one hand splayed against the door to try and hold them up. “Jon, please, fuck,” and Jon’s fingers slip again, fumbling and urgent, and that’s enough: Jon needs so badly to get her off that she’s lost precision, and Tommy’s coming, shaking, pressing her open mouth to Jon’s neck. This close, Jon’s breathing sounds like thunder, the promise of rain on a desperate, parched earth. 

Reality filters back in slowly: first, the blurred sounds of the world outside this locked room, the muted hubbub of the general public; then, the higher level awareness that they’re in a rest stop bathroom, and that she’d really like to stop touching any of its surfaces as soon as possible. 

Jon seems to have arrived at the same conclusion. “We should, uh,” she’s saying, pulling her sticky hand slowly out of Tommy’s jeans, “uh, wash up, before we go back to the bus.”

It could sound like a rejection, coming out of anyone else’s mouth, or a brush-off: Tommy only has to glance at Jon’s bashful, happy face, the way her eyes are flicking to Tommy’s mouth and away again while she’s fastening her fly, to know it’s something else. There’s a bubble of hope expanding in Tommy’s chest that’s got nothing to do with the beginnings of traction the campaign is picking up.

“Was that okay?” Jon asks, like Tommy hasn’t just demonstrated just how extremely okay it was in a variety of orgasmic ways. “Should I have -- waited?”

“Fuck, no,” Tommy says, with feeling, and has the singular delight of watching Jon’s grin spread across her face like a sunbeam, all for her. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since…” _Since our first time. Since I first read your work. Since we met, and you smiled at me, and I almost dropped my coffee._ “Since, uh, a while.”

Jon’s smile gets impossibly brighter. They’re taking turns in the little sink, and Tommy holds down the tap for her so Jon can wash her hands properly without the water shutting off. She watches Jon’s long fingers flex under the water, and feels herself go hot again, like she never fucking cooled down. She’s got it bad, she thinks, and doesn’t mind at all.

“Yeah?” Jon asks, drying her hands. “For real?”

They’ve probably got, like, three minutes left to grab a drink and sprint for the bus, but, looking at Jon right now, Tommy is willing to risk going thirsty. “Yeah,” she says, and reaches out, links her hand in Jon’s and squeezes. “For real.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me screaming into the void about podcasters on [tumblr](http://mpdgoblin.tumblr.com)


End file.
